


Only A Way-Station

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Ficlet, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-21
Updated: 2008-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen's in limbo, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only A Way-Station

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene from "A Day in the Death." Also references events from "Out of Time." Poem by Emily Dickinson.

_My life closed twice before its close_

Owen slammed the door behind him, fists clenching, muscles trembling, and thinking it quite odd that a dead man could feel so exhausted. He'd just finished shoving almost everything he owned into bags, and dragging it all down to the rubbish bins in the basement. Hundreds, thousands of pounds worth of stuff he would never use, never need again: food, alcohol, dishes, silverware, sheets and pillowcases, toiletries. On his way back, he could smell the trail of Scotch that had seeped through the bags and into the hall carpets. Not that he cared though. That was the custodian's job, mate.

Owen threw himself onto his living room couch and scowled at the near-empty flat. Diane had said it wasn't very homely when she'd first visited. That was true: it had never been because he had never lived here. It had only been a way-station, a place to sleep, fuck and occasionally unwind. Didn't need much more than a couch, a chair and a good-sized telly for any of that, really. Though the barrenness mocked him now; all he could do anymore was think, and he didn't want to do that at the mo', if ever.

He glared at the blank ceiling. He was stuck inside these spare four walls, until Jack came to his senses and let him return to work. Jack-fucking-Harkness who had done this to him in the first place. For a fucking code to the alien morgue, he said. Prepare him for death. Right.

He was stuck, no doubt about that.

Owen flung his arm over his eyes, shutting out the scene that teased him through the panoramic windows of his living room. His flat was high enough to look out over the city. Not a great picture during the day--all concrete and cloud, or rain. He loved the view at night, though, when he happened to be there: all the lights shining, even in the rain, reminding him that not all the world was as dark as what he dealt with.

The Cardiff skyline, the same as from the roof of the car-park where he and Diane had danced that last evening--

Owen thought of Diane in her red satin dress, the one he'd bought for her, how it hugged the shapely curves of her body. On the rooftop, when they danced to Tony Bennett's "The Good Life"--he could still feel the warmth of her against him. Her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her white skin glowing in the moonlight above the city; her frank, smoldering gaze as she looked at him over her glass of bubbly. He couldn't help but smile, thinking of that daring, teasing grin.

Unconsciously, he slipped his hand down his boxer briefs. He could still recall the taste of cigarette smoke and champagne in her mouth when they kissed in his flat. He remembered the smooth silk of her back when he reached around to unzip her dress. He'd stepped back to watch it slide down her body and pool on the floor.

He rubbed and thrust against his palm, breathing harder. They'd tumbled into bed, on top of the twisted sheets. God, how her firm yet yielding breasts had felt in his hands; how he'd been drawn to the long line of her throat when she tossed her head back. He'd kissed that throat, tongued along her collarbone and all the way down her gorgeous body. She'd wriggled from beneath him before he reached her hip; wrestled him onto his back, climbed on top and upside down, and laughed the whole time. Her fingers, then her mouth, wrapped around him, so hot and slick; and how she quivered and rocked against his lips when he spread her open and slid his tongue into her.

Oh, God--he'd cupped Diane's hips reverently as she slowly, slowly guided him inside her. Her scarlet lips had parted in a gasping "Oh!" when he reached down between them to finger her. Diane's whole body had clenched around him, so close and tight as they moved together--

Oh. Right.

He squeezed his eternally-flaccid penis. Fuck.

He'd somehow lost the scarf she'd given him as a memento when she flew off towards the Rift. Those sense memories were all he had left--

Fuck.

He slammed his head back against the cushion. There was no comfort in Diane's memory if he couldn't do anything about it. He might as well just cut the damn thing off and toss it with the rest of the rubbish.

If he hadn't just thrown out all his kitchen knives.

Owen leapt up and paced back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom. The emptiness inside and outside welled up and pressed in, squeezing from both sides like a ripening boil. There was nothing to lance it, to release the pressure; it was worse, so much worse than when Diane had flown off. He'd almost exploded then--fought a Weevil, opened the Rift, destroyed the world.

His exploding this time will be literal, he thought wryly, looking at his bandaged hand. Just himself. Not so much of a mess, at least. (Maybe.)

He whirled around at the tentative knock on the door. He could smell the garlic and basil from where he stood in the middle of the room.

"Owen? Owen, it's Tosh."

Great. Tosh, coming to check up on the walking dead guy. Her earnestness was definitely the last thing he wanted. But at least she cared, unlike some. And her visit was better than mooning over the past and future that would never be.

So he strode over, and turned the knob to let her in.


End file.
